Diva

Alyson shook her head.

‘It’s on the Quai d’Orsay, along the river. They have ads for flat shares, au pairs, hostess work, that kind of thing. But don’t go getting another job! There’s no way I can do without you here.’

‘Thanks, Aidan,’ Alyson grinned shyly, as she grabbed her bag and slipped out of the door, stepping into the bustle of the busy street.

It was a beautiful day and she decided to walk, eager to see as much of the city as she could. She took a left and followed the curve of the river. Heavy sycamore trees swayed gently in the light breeze as the traffic rumbled incessantly on the other side of the Seine.

A group of young Parisians, not much older than herself, whizzed by on rollerblades, their bronzed limbs sleek and toned as they yelled to each other. Their French was rapid and full of slang, but Alyson was learning fast, the colloquial phrases quickly becoming familiar to her. Yeah, she was really making progress, she thought happily, as she strolled along enjoying the warm spring sunshine.

‘Mademoiselle?’

Alyson felt a hand on her arm and turned sharply. A man stood in front of her, nervously clearing his throat. He was in his forties, a touch overweight and beginning to go bald. There were sweat patches under the armpits of his shirt, and the top of his head barely came up to her chin. ‘Vous avez l’heure?’ he asked.

Alyson checked her watch. ‘Oui. Quinze heures trente.’ She went to move on, but the man stopped her.

‘Vous êtes très belle, mademoiselle. Vous voulez prendre un café avec moi?’

Alyson reddened, looking away sharply. ‘Non, merci.’ She began to walk off. The guy watched her go for a moment, as though considering whether or not to pursue her. He decided not to. He didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.

The incident had unsettled Alyson. She hated the way men came on to her like that. It had happened ever since she’d arrived in Paris. They would follow her down the street, hit on her when she was sitting in the park reading a book – even chat her up when she was in the launderette, trying to wash her clothes She knew that the French reputation was legendary when it came to romance, but so far all she’d encountered were a bunch of sleazeballs with appalling chat-up lines. Besides, she’d lost her trust in men when her father had walked out on them …

Angrily, Alyson stomped up the stone steps of the American Church, trying to banish the unhappy memories. Away from the road it was quiet, and the cloisters were cool after the heat of the street. Shading her eyes from the sun reflecting off the windows, Alyson skimmed the ‘To Let’ adverts. There was very little that was suitable – too small, too expensive, too far out of the city. But then her eye landed on one that sounded exactly what she was looking for. She took her new mobile out of her bag and dialled the number.

‘Oh yeah, baby, that’s right …’

‘Fuck,’ swore Dionne, as her cell phone began to ring, completely distracting her from the job in hand.

‘Laisse tomber!’ David shouted to her. ‘Leave it, Dionne.’

‘It could be important,’ she protested, climbing off him. ‘A job or something.’

David Mouret, dark and gorgeous with a body to die for, lay back heavily on the black satin sheets, his unsated cock rock-hard and throbbing in frustration.

‘Come on, Dionne,’ he pleaded, in heavily accented English. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Just shut up for a moment,’ she snapped, rummaging through her purse. ‘Shit,’ she swore again as the phone stopped ringing.

‘Thank Christ for that. Perhaps now we go back to fucking, yes?’

‘Wait! Maybe they’ll leave a message.’

David sighed as Dionne tapped her nails impatiently. Her phone beeped and she pounced on it.

‘Hello? Hi, this is … well, my name’s Alyson,’ stammered the girl at the other end. ‘I’m phoning about the flat-share you’re advertising.’

Dionne groaned, feeling something inside her sink. She had hoped it would be from her modelling agent, but it was just some girl with a weird voice calling about the apartment.

‘If the room’s still available, I’d be interested in viewing it. You can call me on my mobile …’ – A mobile? She must be British. And check that accent! – ‘… and just leave a message if I’m at work. My name’s Alyson Wakefield and I look forward to speaking with you soon. Thank you.’

Dionne hung up. She could phone the girl later; right now, she had David to attend to. CeCe had been right when she said that he adored her, but Dionne knew she had to keep him sweet. She was counting on him to take her out for dinner later, then onto the hot new club, Bijou, so she could get another look at the luscious guy who owned the place.

Moving across the bed, Dionne placed one manicured fingernail firmly on the dark, wiry hairs on David’s chest and gently pushed him backwards. He let out a groan as Dionne began to kiss his stomach, teasing the soft hair on his belly, until her lips gradually worked lower, and David Mouret remembered exactly why he bought her all those expensive presents …

5

‘Is that it?’ Dionne asked incredulously, as Alyson came into the apartment carrying a single suitcase.

‘Yeah,’ Alyson nodded self-consciously, wondering what all the fuss was about.

‘Honey, I take more than that for a weekend in Cannes.’

‘I don’t have … I don’t need a lot of stuff,’ Alyson explained. It was true – she carried the bare minimum of clothes, only the essential cosmetics. She had a couple of books, including the French dictionary she’d used at school, three pairs of shoes and one handbag. No photos, no keepsakes. She’d taken very little when she left home.

‘Maybe I could take over some of your closet space …,’ Dionne wondered, but broke off as a bedroom door opened and another girl staggered out. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her eyes were barely open, narrowed into tiny slits. One side of her head was shaved, but the hair on the other side was sticking out at crazy angles. It looked as though she’d just woken up.

‘Hey, I’m CeCe,’ she said warmly, kissing Alyson on both cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Dionne apologized. ‘We had a big night last night, and poor CeCe’s still feelin’ it.’

‘It was wild,’ CeCe added, by way of explanation.

‘Sounds like fun …’

‘Oh, it was,’ Dionne assured her. ‘Nobody parties harder than me and CeCe. We’re legends in this city. Anyway,’ she chattered on. ‘Your room’s through here – but you already know that …’

Alyson followed them along the corridor, looking around her as she took in her new home. She’d seen the apartment before, when she came to view it, but that had been brief and Dionne hadn’t stopped talking. Although the whole place was beautifully decorated, it was also incredibly cluttered – half-finished garments, rolls of material and fashion magazines dominated the communal areas. Alyson began to think it was a good thing she hadn’t brought much with her: space was clearly at a premium.

She dumped her suitcase on the single bed, padding across to the window to look out at the view. It was far from spectacular. Instead of a skyline vista over the rooftops of Paris, Alyson’s room looked out on a small courtyard where the refuse bins were stored, a couple of long-forgotten pot plants wilting in the corner. It was hardly the Parisian dream.

She turned round to find Dionne and CeCe standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly.

‘Shall we help you unpack?’ Dionne asked brightly. ‘Not that it’ll take long …’

Alyson thought about it, a sudden embarrassing vision of them going through her secondhand clothes and greying underwear. ‘It’s fine,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll do it later.’

‘Sure. Come through, sit down, let’s get to know each other,’ grinned Dionne, grabbing her hand and pulling her back through to the lounge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

‘Oh my God, I love your accent,’ Dionne squealed. ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ she repeated, trying, and failing, to imitate Alyson’s flat Lancashire vowels. ‘It’s just too cute! So what would you like? We have champagne, wine, gin, vodka, brandy … There’s probably some other stuff lying around, but I wouldn’t recommend the absinthe.’ She pulled a face.

Alyson smiled, assuming she was joking. But Dionne was staring at her, waiting for a response.

Alyson checked the clock on the wall – just gone eleven a.m. ‘Um … do you have anything nonalcoholic?’ she ventured, wondering if she was making some kind of terrible faux pas.

‘Oh, sure. Will coffee do ya? CeCe looks like she could do with some.’

CeCe, curled up in a chair with her eyes closed, merely grunted.